Locos Parentis
by Minor God
Summary: My first Jeeves story - an insight into Jeeves' fondness for controlling the young master.


Locos Parentis

* * *

Hi guys, this is my first ever Jeeves fic, so I would really appreciate some feedback (but be gentle!) It's just my whim of how it would be if Jeeves became increasingly fond of controlling Bertie.

Disclaimer: No, I'm not PG Wodehouse - honest!

* * *

In the care of a very young gentleman, such as Mr Wooster, one is eventually bound to cultivate feelings of... not _ownership_. Not exactly. But a marked easing of the formality with which a valet's tasks are performed – a sense that they become less a basis of employment, and rather something to be done with a purpose, of one's own accord. After some time caring for Mr Wooster, it ceased to seem that I performed these tasks at his command; with the passing of time, I came to anticipate his desires before he did himself and in that, the feeling of my responsibility for him flourished.

A very young gentleman is apt to be cared for. He was in marked contrast to the wizened tweed-crusted heads of state I had previously worked for, who were always set in their deviating ways. Mr Wooster, I saw from that first inebriated moment on the doorstep, had the makings of a very fine man, if only I could mould them to completion. Being of a very kind nature and lacking in substantial intellect made him trusting. As our acquaintance wore on, my daily routine was allowed to become more and more intertwined with his, until a social occasion was not to be contemplated without me by his side. It was wonderful.

I clean the clothes that display his elegance (he is frequently thought to be the most handsome man in the room, from the whispers I overhear as we swoop by at dances and dinners. Hearing them makes my heart fierce with pride), and I put them on his naked body. He is immaculately trusting. Like a child, innocent and devoid of shame, he daily climbs from the bath with water dripping from his gleaming skin, smiling that sweet smile that shows obliviousness to the feelings that such a sight as his own body can arouse. One day his faith in me will extend further, and I will wash his body too.

Forgive me. I don't mean to say I intended any harm to him at all. Quite the opposite: I spoke of my pride when Mr Wooster's charms were admired, but frankly, I seek to protect him from the results of admiration. Although it is part of my long-term intention for Mr Wooster to marry and become a father, I have never yet thought one of his fiancées to be equal to him. Thusly I am not fond of the times when I find his shirts smelling of perfume, or when he returns to the flat in the small hours of the morning. Slowly, I am curtailing these. A shocked glance here, a disappointed shake of the head there. When the time comes I shall know.

I make the food that nourishes him. Despite his thin frame, he is graceful and athletic, and glows with health. This is perhaps my greatest achievement. So many men in Mr Wooster's position (and indeed generally) are disposed to indulge wantonly and grow lazy, or else to drink until all other consumption is discarded, then wither and fade. I know he will never do either, because I am here to govern his health in an eternal locos parentis.

I mend the cracks in his heart. Time after time, he comes to me, exhausted by the cruel twists of cupid's arrow, stifling tears and searching for answers to meaningless questions about love. These I can appease. I calm him with a few soft words, a hand on his shoulder, a glass of wine, the silent tenderness of an almost-father. Gradually he gives me greater allowance to this; he misses his own father.

Occasionally the burden of this responsibility does hit me with some force. The delicacy with which he has to be nurtured can sometimes prove a strain. This manifests itself as a wondrously realistic dream, a dream which never alters.

In this dream I walk into Mr Wooster's room – it is never night or day, just a still, empty time prevalent in sleep – and find the bed empty. With a streak of panic, I look around and invariably find my young master at my feet. He is naked, because I have not clothed him, and his limbs are twined about themselves trying to stave off the cold although he shivers violently. Then I notice the surreal way in which his body seems deformed – he appears simultaneously warped and diminished. I have not fed him! Now he is starving. Even in my sleep, my heart begins to race: I am letting my master die when he entrusted himself, body and soul into my care.

The tears I notice last. The horrors of his murky childhood, his parents deaths, his many romantic rejections, they have all returned at one to haunt him, and I was not there to heal the breaking heart. Seeing the pain in his eyes is the worst blow, and it bolts me into a waking world of sadness and terror.

I have no children. The women I have ever had intimate acquaintance of have never been suitable mothers, and when I was about thirty, I lost faith in their general suitability as people to share a life with. Mr Wooster, I fancy, will be my legacy. Unlike a son, I shall never have to cast him off into the world and risk seeing him sink. No. As the years go by, he will not grow apart from me, eventually cutting off all my influence and then loving me only as a novelty or through a whimsical sense of duty. No! As the years go by, my young master will grow further and further in need of me. And I shall serve him more and more. One day, I shall run his bath and wash and dry the body that I so painstakingly preserve in its health. One day I shall hold the fork to his lips for him to eat the meals that he will eat at my command, and not at his desire. One day, I will find him someone worthy of his love, and on my advice, he will happily tear out his heart and present it to her. But of course, it will always be me he needs most.


End file.
